Last One To Die

by Cynthia Murphy

  “Er, that was me,” Will says guiltily.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah.” Will rubs the back of his neck with one gangly arm. “I was only trying to help. The same as when you saw me outside your place, I was trying to protect you.” He at least has the grace to look sheepish as I clasp my mug tighter, hearing it creak under the strain.

  “You scared the life out of me!”

  He doesn’t reply, just looks at the floor.

  “Anyway,” Jess breaks the silence. “He’s right. Weird – supernatural – stuff, has been happening.” She swivels around on her chair to face us. “You know, I always thought I wanted ghosts and stuff to be real. Now? Not so sure.” She sighs and pauses, swinging back to resume scrolling. “Here. I still don’t know if I do believe my own eyes, but – well, you tell me what you think.”

  She clicks a few times and a grainy black-and-white image sharpens. It’s a Victorian street scene. “Look.”

  I lean in and squint. As if by magic the scene clarifies itself, and I realize she’s playing with the filters.

  “Tell me what you see.”

  I don’t have to. I’ve spotted him straight away, or someone who looks an awful lot like him. He’s standing in the corner of the frame, dressed as a paper boy, holding a newspaper in the air.

  “Wait.” I reach into my bag for my phone and pull up the photo I snapped earlier. The one I had forgotten about until now. I find it and use my fingers to zoom in as far as I can, before propping the phone up next to the screen.

  “Where did you get this?”

  I quickly explain about the hospital this morning. I’m tempted to leave out the bit about following a figure but screw it. I’m going all in.

  “And I think . . . I think Jane Alsop has got something to do with this.”

  Jess looks at me sharply. “Jane? Dead girl from 1838, Jane?”

  “Yeah. I . . . had a bad dream.” I wince as I say the words out loud. “She was trying to warn me.”

  “A dream?” Will says. He leans forwards in his chair, looking animated for the first time ever.

  I start to explain the dream about the graveyard, the feeling I got when I went near the occult artefacts at the museum, the glimpse of a dress in the hospital this morning that led me to the photograph. “And my phone,” I realize. “Earlier today, at the museum. I always leave my phone in my locker, because there’s no signal down there, but today I didn’t.”

  “What’s so weird about that?”

  “It started working when I was in the parlour. When I was right in front of Jane’s portrait.”

  “She’s trying to help you,” Will murmurs.

  Jess shakes her head. “Could just be a co – Will, where are you going?” His chair legs squeak on the floor as he quickly pushes it back and disappears through the door into the main library. Jess looks at me in exasperation. “Seriously, no wonder we suspected him. He doesn’t half make life hard for himself.

  “Here.” A large, thin book crashes down on the desk, announcing Will’s return. Jess rolls her eyes at me.

  “See?” she mutters.

  I look down and see it’s the scrapbook I saw that day in the library, the one he snatched away from me. Will leans over me to open it and I slide my chair back. I’m still not completely comfortable with him this close to me.

  “What is this?” The first page is covered in clipping from ancient newspapers (“Photocopies, not originals I hope,” Jess grumbles under her breath). I study them and reach out to turn the page, revealing a familiar double spread. My finger pauses on the ink drawing, a man dressed up like a devil, arms outstretched, bat-like wings protruding from them.

  “I’ve seen this before.” I rack my brain, trying to shake the memory loose. Something about Punch and Judy, or the theatre . . . wait. I’ve got it. “Spring Heeled Jack?”

  Will looks positively delighted. Jess, on the other hand, does not.

  “Come on, Will, explain.” She points at Jack’s sneering, moustachioed face, and then at the two pictures of the boy who looks so heart-wrenchingly familiar. “What’s this guy got to do with this guy?”

  “I think they’re all the same person.” He’s so serious, I can’t help it. I start to laugh again but the solemn look on his face makes the sound die in my throat. “Really. Look.”

  He flips through the book once more and I see he’s not only collected articles about Jack, but his victims. Attacks from as far back as October 1837 litter the pages, some accompanied by sketches and, as the cuttings become more modern, photographs, first in black and white and then colour. The last ones are dated from this month and the smiling earnest faces of Sara and Natasha beam up at me. I can see someone, presumably Will, has drawn a small, black cross and a neat inscription next to the photo of Sara. Deceased.

  “OK,” I say slowly, desperately trying to fit the jigsaw pieces together. “So there have been all these attacks over, what, the last two centuries, pretty much?” Will nods and leans back in his chair as Jess studies the book. “That’s interesting and all, but how do they all link together? How do you have him down as Spring Heeled Jack?” I flip back to the first page and point to a heading, The Terror of London? “He’s only. . .” I hesitate. “Well, he’s not that old.” I finish weakly.

  I have no idea how old he is.

  “Look at the date, Niamh.” Will points to the first article, and I skim it.

  “Yeah, February 1838. So?”

  “There was another attack, Lucy Scales, happened one week after Jane died, near a travelling fairground.”

  “Ah,” Jess chimes in, eyes sparking. “If he was some ghoulie murdering revenant, wouldn’t he have started with Jane?”

  Will’s eyes narrow. “I thought we were on the same side.”

  “We are, we are.” Jess holds up her hands, the hospital band on full display now. “Don’t shoot, I’m just playing Devil’s Advocado, that’s all. I am, first and foremost, a woman of science, you know.”

  “Right.” Will flips the page back to the pictures of the girls I’m so familiar with, the ones who could have – should have – been my friends. “If I’m going to play devil’s advocate—”

  “Whatever,” she grumbles.

  “—then I’d go with the revenant angle.”

  “Really?” Jess perks up.

  “Yeah, I know it’s crazy, but hey.” He gestures to the scrapbook. I must look bewildered. “A revenant,” he explains gently, “is kind of like a vicious vampire. . .”

  Jess nearly snorts out her tea. “No, it’s not!”

  “OK, what is it then?”

  “It’s more like a ghost, a romantic, yearning. . .”

  “It really isn’t.”

  “It is! Haven’t you read those Amy Plum books? The ones set in Paris?” Jess fake swoons and Will starts to argue with her.

  I sigh and google “revenant”.

  “A revenant,” I read aloud in a flat monotone, “is an animated corpse that is believed to have been revived from death to haunt the living. It comes from the Old French ‘revenant’, the ‘returning’ or ‘renvier’, ‘to come back’.” I put my phone down and thank the gods of Wikipedia. “Sound about right?”

  “Whatever,” says Will. “Anyway, revenants have this connection with people, this ability to bring them back.”

  “Er, OK. So why is he doing the opposite? Why is he hurting people?” I hurry to correct myself. “I mean, if you’re right, which would be very, very weird. Why has he been attacking girls?”

  “Girls who look like you,” Will corrects.

  “No,” I protest. “Not all of them. Me and Jess look nothing alike.”

  “Yeah, but I was attacked for a different reason,” says Jess. “He was different. Cold. Almost . . . dead behind the eyes. He must have known that I recognized him, that I’d match him up with the microfilm pictures eventually.”

  “Which you did,” I say.

  Jess nods. “He thought I was going to tell you about a
ll this and he wanted me out of the way.”

  I don’t say anything. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Not only are they telling me that one of the people I trusted most while I was here has been behind all of this, but that he is some kind of ancient, bloodthirsty undead person, too.

  The real problem is, I think I’m starting to believe them.

  “There are more pictures, Niamh,” Jess says quietly. She flips to another one. There he is again, head slightly down but unmistakable.

  “Are you sure they’re not all long-lost relatives?” I try.

  “They could be, I guess,” Jess says quietly, flipping to yet another picture, the background of which I recognize. The museum. It’s in colour, this one, but the outfits are all shades of yellow and brown, so I mark it down as some time in the seventies. It’s the front of the museum and an old man is proudly cutting a ribbon with some huge, metal handled scissors. “This one did make me wonder, whether it was a relative or not, but here’s one more.”

  She flips to a magazine article, this one definitely from the nineties. It shows a nightclub, a lush, velvet sofa, and a slim brunette, sat on his lap. I recognize the woman and flip back to a page in the Will’s eerie scrapbook. Yes, there she is. A perfectly symmetrical, angular face stares out at me, lips lined in nineties brown, her hair long and shiny, parted in the middle. “Remembering the tragic teenage supermodel, Caitlin Cooke, on the twenty-fifth anniversary of her murder.”

  “No,” I whisper, pushing the book away. “No.”

  “Niamh, don’t you see? I think he’s in these photos on purpose. Can you imagine how hard it was to get on a photograph back in Victorian times? When Jane died they were only just being invented! He could have done it to keep some kind of warped record of his existence. He must have a weird obsession with them – I mean, all those pictures of you asleep. He must have taken them. Then deleted them when you were downstairs.”

  So he was there all the time. I shiver.

  “But. . .” My phone begins to flash, making me jump. It’s just Meghan trying to FaceTime.

  “Ignore it,” I say, shaking my head. I’ll call her later.

  “OK,” Jess ploughs on, “and Will told me this morning he has noticed something else.”

  “A pattern,” Will supplies. “Between the pictures we found of him and the dates of the attacks.”

  “And?”

  “They match. But more than that, there’s a definite pattern. He attacks five girls in total, generally leaving at least the last one dead. Then he’s off the radar.”

  “For how long?” My phone starts to buzz again. “Sorry, it’s my sister. My granny hasn’t been well.”

  “Answer it,” Jess says kindly. She drains the dregs of the teapot into our cups as I swipe the screen and walk over to the corner.

  “Hey, Megs,” I say quietly as her flushed, beaming face fills the screen. “Is everything OK? It’s not a great time, can I call you back?” She starts to giggle and I notice a view I’ve grown very familiar with over the last few weeks in the background. “Megs,” I hear the warning tone in my voice. “Where are you?”

  “SURPRISE!” She shouts, spinning around, the Southbank whizzing past behind her. “I’m in London!”

  “What?” Oh, Jesus, how has she managed this one? “Do Mammy and Daddy know?”

  “Not yet, but I left a note when they went to get Granny out of the hospital. You know what it’s like, having to drive to Dublin and back, it takes the whole day. I was at the airport and on the plane before they even landed at St. Vincent’s.” Her smile drops slightly. “They’ll skin me alive when I get back but it’s gonna be soooo worth it. Hey!” She swivels the phone to show a tall figure dressed in black, walking a few paces ahead of her and then pans back. “I went to your museum to surprise you, but it was shut. I wasn’t sure what to do, your friend was there, though!” She lowers her voice conspiratorially, bringing the phone to her mouth so all I can see is a close-up of her lips. “I know he’s older, but he’s a pure ride, Niamh, why didn’t you say?”

  Blood freezes in my veins.

  “Meghan, listen to me. . .”

  “I’ll see you in a minute, anyway. How lucky am I, coming to a London party on my first night?”

  “Party? What party? Megs, listen, you shouldn’t be going off with strangers. . .”

  “Sorry, Mammy,” she laughs, pulling the phone away. “He’s not a stranger, though, is he? You know him. Look, I think we’re nearly here, he said it wasn’t far from this place.” My stomach contracts as I see the gates of the same graveyard we walked past the other night leering up behind her.

  I’m going to be sick.

  “Meghan, get away from him now, turn around and run the other way. Go into shop, or a pub or something, anywhere with people.” Her face slowly falls as she realizes I’m serious.

  “But he said he was taking me to meet you.” Her voice is small and I remember how big a gap those eleven months between us can feel sometimes. “He said we were going to a party at your friend’s house.” The screen is jumping and I can tell she’s walking away, fast. Good girl.

  “Whose house did he say he was taking you to?”

  “Oh,” her breath is coming out faster now, “Jane’s, I think?”

  I’m vaguely aware that Will and Jess are flanking me, watching the scene unfold over my shoulder. Jess’s hand flies to her mouth.

  “It’s fine,” I soothe, trying to keep her calm. “We just, ah, we had a fall out that’s all. I don’t want you around him right now.”

  “OK.” She pauses and looks down at the screen, her voice thick, panicked. “I can’t see anywhere to go, Niamh. I think I’ve gone the wrong way!”

  “Just keep going, we’ll find you, don’t worry.” Jess is already dialling for a cab and I motion for Will to grab our stuff. “I’m on my way to get you now, just stay there.” I follow my friends out of the library, my voice low as we sneak out past Ruth’s office, keeping my eyes on Meghan the whole way. “Can you see him?”

  “No.” The picture wobbles as she hurries along. “How long will you be?”

  “Fifteen minutes, we just need to cross the river. Megs, can you hear me?”

  Her phone thuds to the floor just as our cab pulls up outside.

  “Meghan? Meghan! Pick up the phone!”

  The screen begins to lurch and a face finally comes into view. Only, it’s not the familiar face of my sister.

  Tommy cuts the phone off right as I start to scream.

  I know the tapping of my nails on the console between me and the driver must be driving him nuts, but I can’t help it. The journey feels ten times longer than usual and no one is picking up the phone, Derek and Detective Moran nowhere to be found. Plus, to make matters worse, Meghan’s phone isn’t even ringing out, which means it’s off.

  Or broken.

  “Here!” I don’t even wait for the car to stop fully before I hurl myself out on to the pavement, ignoring the angry shout of the driver. I stumble slightly, a horn blaring at me as I run blindly across the road. I right myself and race towards the cemetery entrance, eyes on the low wall where I last saw Meghan. She’s not there.

  “Niamh, wait!” Jess and Will appear next to me as the cab squeals away.

  “She’s gone.” My voice is dull, which is weird, because something molten is rising from my stomach. “SHE’S GONE!” I scream, aiming a foot at the grey stones.

  “Whoa, stop!” Jess catches me and holds on tight as I immediately sag into her arms. “This won’t do any good, will it? You need to be strong, for Meghan. OK?”

  “OK,” I snivel into my arm. “You’re right. But what now?” I sink down to the pavement, mimicking what I’d seen my sister do only minutes ago. It seems like hours. I trace my finger across a sparkling patch of pavement and lift it up to the light, wondering if the tiny shards of glass clinging to my skin have come from her phone.

  “Tell us again, what exactly did she say?”

  “He said he w
as taking her to meet me. At Jane’s party.”

  “At Jane’s party?” Will repeats.

  “Yes. Well, a party at Jane’s house.”

  Will frowns. “But Jane Alsop lived at the museum.”

  “Wait.” Jess is staring over the cemetery wall, past the lumbering iron gates. “Tell us about the dream you had again.”

  “The graveyard one?” I rub my face. “Um, that I was walking through it to a kind of little building.”

  “Like that one?”

  I stand up so fast my head spins and I have to lean on the rough brick wall to stop myself falling over. “Which one?” I follow Jess’s pointing finger and see a short, stumpy building. It’s shaped like a kid’s drawing of a house, a pointed roof but no chimney or windows. A weathered metal door is set into the middle and it looks run down, neglected.

  “Kind of.” I try to conjure the nightmarish image in my head. “But it was, I dunno, fancier than that one. Prettier, you know? Like, it had columns and stuff on it.”

  “And a window?” Will is busy scrolling on his phone.

  “Yeah.” The image of the sunken face, ropes of rotten hair framing it, scorches into my mind. “Yeah, there was a window.”

  “Would you recognize it?” he asks, still tapping.

  “What? But it wasn’t real. . .” I fall silent as he holds up his phone and I see the building from my dream there, on the screen in all its Technicolor glory.

  “Of course,” whispers Jess. “Where Jane was buried.”

  “I told you.” Will locks the phone and smiles at me grimly. “She’s been trying to help you. What you saw, in your dream, that was Jane’s mausoleum.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Plus,” he adds, nodding over the wall, “guess where it is?”

  “No,” I breathe. Was that where Tommy was trying to take me the other night?

  “Yes.” He lifts his chin and for the first time I see something like confidence in his eyes. “It’s somewhere in there. And I think that’s where he’s taken your sister.”

  “How big is this place?” I mutter.

  “Few acres, I think.” Will’s voice is muffled by the stagnant atmosphere. I follow him deeper into the graveyard, brambles and old, dried flowers that have been shifted by the wind crunching beneath my feet. The air is soupy here, full of static electricity. Low, grey clouds have gathered, effectively blocking out the last of the afternoon sun. It feels like a storm cloud is following us.